


Medieval Gear Solid: Snaca Etere

by itsastanaphon



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7508284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsastanaphon/pseuds/itsastanaphon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm writing this at the behest of twenty-three or so people on Twitter. So please enjoy BB in armor, Ocelot as a prince, and Herba-Medic in a much older and far-off distant world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raining Terror

**Author's Note:**

> Here is some music for the chapter. No, I didn't write this chapter to this particular musical selection, its just tunes I thought fit the theme.  
> [Enjoy](https://open.spotify.com/user/astanaphon/playlist/54d5MPXThQkP3zaTbP9kzC)

               It had been unseasonably cool in Grozwell. The snows had been harsher, the ground harder, the springs colder. The fields had not been yielding the same numbers of crops as they once did. People were struggling to feed themselves. Giving a portion of their yield to the lord of Grozwell was just another steep hill. The populace was becoming restless and troubled. With a lack of crops, colder temperatures, the usual fears of things roaming in the night, and now quiet rumors of war that crisscrossed the land, even the lord was anxious. It seemed that more people were burying their children than raising them. The general populace was malnourished and ill from the lack of well grown, disease free wheat and barley. The cold weather was not helping at all.

               However, all of their problems were of little concern for the lord’s family. The high castle walls and row upon row of guards standing between them and the villeins[1] was a comfort at night, given the poor yielding fields and even poorer weather. The stone walls had always been a comfort and surely any peasant would have envied the Lord and his family for having such a defense. As the guards stood at the gate and patrolled in the courtyard and through the halls, the Lord and his family remained safe for many years. It was the peasants working in the fields some miles to the north that were the first to fall victim to the oncoming storm. They were cut down as swiftly as they themselves had been threshing wheat. There wasn’t any time for anyone to run off and warn the Lord. The soldiers had been on them too quickly, silencing them so as not to alert any opposing forces. The peasant’s bodies were left mangled in the very fields they had been working in, broken and bloodied, their eyes stared endlessly up into the darkening sky.

               The soldiers moved swiftly onward, towards the village and the castle at its center. It was a small accompaniment, but at least three hundred strong. By sneaking up in the dark, avoiding roads, and not alerting anyone, they were able to come up unannounced. They waited just over the ridge in the woods for the sun to disappear completely beneath the horizon. As darkness descended, the stars came out and the people went into their homes for the night, unable to know what lurked in the forest just out of eyesight. The force hiding in the woods waited several hours into the night before moving closer, weaving silently between villager’s huts and flanking the village entirely. They moved up the hill, past homes and shops, closer to the main gate. The peasants were all sleeping, their shops were closed and animals put in their barns with most of the dogs inside due to the cold. The occasional soft sounds from the sheep pen could be heard. Soldiers walking swiftly by in light armor, barely making noise as they headed for the castle gate. Coming upon guards in the silence of night, they dispatched the ones milling around the main entrance efficiently and without a sound.

               The force infiltrated quickly. It wasn’t long before yelling could be heard, the clash of metal, horses whinnying, and soon villagers being awakened from their slumber. The sound of hooves thundered by their homes accompanied by yelling, and a distant horn blowing. What it signaled, no one knew. The people stayed barred in their homes, praying to whatever would listen, that they themselves would see through the night safe and sound. The attackers were not interested in the peasant folk as the sounds of warfare were concentrated within the castle walls and grounds. The constant yelling was comfortingly distant for the people cowering in their homes. For the guards and servants in the castle, this almost certainly spelled death. The invaders overran the guards at the gate as they they poured in through the ten-inch thick wooden door, dodging the fire arrows coming in through the slit windows. Wave upon wave of highly skilled, mobile soldiers came flooding in through the walls. The servants were jostled into the kitchen all together and blocked by men with black armor and obscured faces.

               “What do we do with them?” One soldier asked his companion as he dragged a young handmaiden into the room, tossing her in with the rest. She lost her balance and fell onto her hands, where she was pulled up quickly by the cook.

               “Whatever he wants us to do.” The soldier lifted his visor and made a lecherous face at the young woman, before he was roughly jabbed by the other soldier there with him. They both went back to guarding the main entrance to the kitchens. The servants looked at one another; the women holding the younger handmaidens closer to them and the men poorly attempting to keep everyone calm.

               “Who are they?” her voice wavered, “I don’t…I don’t recognize their colors or their shields.” One of the hand maidens whispered to the Steward, her face pale. He turned to her, his mouth slack and his eyes moist. He drew in a breath, his eyes catching the handmaidens, “Don’t worry, everything will be alright.” She nodded slowly, lacing her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. The sounds of the distant horn blowing interrupted their conversation, it was followed by the sound of heavy beating horse hooves. They were deafening. Someone was riding directly into the Great Hall. The normal _clip clop_ of hooves echoed sharply on the stone floor as the soldiers scrambled to get out of the way. A larger than life man in dark red armor sat astride a black, destrier war horse in the middle of the great hall. He wore no helmet and strapped to his back was a wooden handled war maul; it was stained with blood. One of the soldiers approached the man, nodding his head quickly before speaking, his voice was dry, he sounded worried.

               “Sir, the servants have been rounded up, they’re in the kitchen. What would-” the man cut off the soldier with a wave of his gloved hand.

               “Whatever you want, I have no use for them. Where’s the boy?” His voice was dark, his face was marked with scars, and his blonde hair hung lank and wet around his shoulders. His eyes scanned the room like a predator. The soldier gestured to the winding stairs at the back of the Great Hall.

              “In the solar, sir, Volgin, sir,” the soldier stuttered slightly, “the living quarters for-” He was cut off once more but this time with a snarling response from the man.

              “I know what a solar is!” He tilted over to dismount and landed steadily on his feet, wheeling on the soldier, looming above him and glaring down. The soldier nodded brusquely, stumbling over himself trying to get out the way. Volgin watched the soldier scramble away, back to the kitchens where the servants were being held. The servants weren’t what he came for. He pointed to a detachment of his own soldiers, who were standing nearby, straight backed, silent, waiting for orders. He gestured to them, “Come with me.” They nodded and fell in behind him, walking in a loud, metallic troop towards the stairs of the main turret.

              He had left his horse standing in the middle of the Great Hall as he and his men strode off towards the stairs. The room echoed as the metal of their armor clashed on the stone floor. The stone steps spiraled around and around and around and went up and up, leading from the Great Hall all the way to the upper most floor, the solar. The sound of all their armor clinking and smashing on the stone was deafening in the enclosed spiral stairs. The royal family had most likely sought refuge in the solar, thinking that he wouldn’t make it this far. He smiled to himself, his sharp teeth showing in his mirth, _of course he would have made it._ His armored feet clanked on the stone stairs, the soldiers were bustling along behind him loudly, as the sounds of distant screams could be heard from below.

              They continued to climb, passing doors off to the right or the left, rooms now left cold and vacant; the evening fires dying or gone. Volgin came to the top of the stairs, a wide smile spread across his features as they finally reached the top floor where the main door was shut to them, barred from the other side. Soldiers could be heard on the other side of the door, scrambling, yelling, trying to keep the intruders out. Volgin ran his hands across the wooden door, pushing here or there slightly, checking for weak spots before pulling away and chuckling to himself, pointing to the door as he turned to his men, “Break it down.” The soldiers rammed against the door repeatedly, throwing their everything against it. The door held. They ran into it two more times before it even began to crack, the hinges finally buckling under the pressure of so much forced weight, the wood beginning to snap. The door finally gave way with a horrendous crashing sound, the pieces still attached to the hinges swaying solemnly. Soldiers pushed their way through the doorway, there was no need to ready their weapons. The lord and his family were pressed back against the far wall, their guards standing by, swords at the ready. They were terrified and knew they were outnumbered. Volgin stepped over the pieces of the broken wooden door, pushing one of his men out of his way, the soldier saying nothing and simply moving aside.

              “Here we are at last.” Volgin deeply purred. He gestured with his hands towards the lord and his family. The three of them said nothing, they simply stared. Volgin raised his eyebrow, a slow smirk spread across his face. He gestured to the lord’s high backed wooden chair, a soldier pulled it out, the wooden legs scraping on the stone floor, creating the only sound in the room. Volgin sat down, his armor chinking on the wood as he leaned against the straight backed chair. His matted and bloodied blonde hair stuck to the decorative back cushion of the chair. As his gaze settled on the royal family, he squinted, tilting his head. He watched them for a moment before speaking.

              “There’s something wrong here,” Volgin tapped his gloved hands on the arm of the chair, the lord and lady looked at each other for a split second, they were trembling as Volgin continued, “Where’s the boy?” His eyes scanned the room. He smiled, allowing his sharp teeth to show through his parted lips. He waved his hand to the adjacent room as one of his soldier broke off from the group to search.

              “No!” The Lady tried to run past the soldier, her husband grabbing her by the arm, pulling her to him.

              “Don’t. It’ll only make it worse.” He whispered in her ear. She didn’t listen, she yelled. Urgently trying to pull herself away from him. She dug her heels into the stone, frantically pulling this way and that, trying to get into the other room. In her struggle, she lost her footing on the stone floor, her shoes slipping, causing her to crumble to her knees, catching herself on her outstretched hands. The stone was cold against the heat of her skin. Her head bowed, hot, heavy tears falling down her face, hitting the cold floor and making small glistening puddles. Eventually, her husband let go of her arm, his grip relaxing into a soothing rubbing instead; her hands crumpled in her lap as she watched the soldier bring a quietly murmuring bundle of white linens from the other room.

              “There he is!” Volgin announced, the chair scraping the floor as he stood up and took the bundle from the soldier.

              “What do you want with him?” The lord’s voice was soft, his wife at his feet, still on her knees with her cheeks stained from tears. Her face was a silent mask of fury. Volgin didn’t look at them. He stared at the baby in the linen bundle, offering one finger to the child, who took it in his small grip, holding on without a care in the world.

              “You know what I want,” Volgin sat back down in the chair, still holding the baby, not bothering to look up the lord and lady as he spoke, “I want this kingdom.”

              “You don’t need my son to do that.” The child’s mother stood up shakily, holding onto one of the chairs for support. The lord gave her his hand but she declined it. Her eyes were like two burning suns, she was shaking. Volgin chuckled. The child in his arms cooed.

              “Well, I do need an heir if I am to rule your kingdom.” He looked at them both then, a small smile on his features. The lord and lady stood still and silent, both of their mouths tight, straight lines.

              “You can make your own heir; you don’t need mine!” Her voice was heated and firm, her chin was quibbling. One of Volgin’s soldiers walked closer to her, as if to dissuade her from attempting anything drastic. Volgin made a clucking sound of disapproval, _tsking_ at her as he bounced the baby in his arms.

              “Therein lies the problem, my lady.” His voice was all honey and sweetness, but laced with venom. He smiled broadly at her, his lips parting, showing off sharp, long, white teeth. She drew in a breath, she felt cold all over as a prickling sweat accumulated on her skin.

              “No, no, no,” she whispered under her breath, her words muddling together seeing her baby being held by a monster. His mouth curled into a devilish grin as he continued to bounce the baby in the crook of his arm, her child wrapped in white linens and not a care in the world.

              “So you see!” He made a grand, sweeping gesture to them both as he spoke, “I cannot, in fact, make my own heir and I certainly don’t want the people to turn against me. So I’ll be generous and I’ll make a deal with you.” He leaned back in the chair, the room deathly silent aside from the far off echoes of screaming below, screams that were drowned out by the innocent gurgling and cooing from the bundle of white linens being held hostage.

              “You give me your Kingdom and this,” he nodded to the baby in his arms, “and I’ll let you live.” He fell silent again, watching them both expectantly.

              “No,” the lord’s voice was cutting and brokered no bargaining, “you can take the kingdom, you can take the castle, I don’t care. I will not give you my son.” The room fell silent once more, the guards shifted in their stance, their armor clinking, metal sliding against metal. A slow smirk slid across Volgin’s features, his white, sharp teeth showing once again as a light laugh crawled out of his gut.

             “Well, can’t say I didn’t at least _try_ to play nice.” He gestured to his soldier, the man’s sword already preemptively drawn. Volgin pointed to the lord, “Kill him.”

             “No!” The lady’s voice echoed in the room as the closest soldier lunged at the lord. There was a struggle, the lord  pushing his attacker away. The lord was a big man and the soldier was hard pressed to push him against the edge of the large table. His wife was being held around the waist by another soldier who had a death grip on her, as she screamed and rocked from side to side in the man’s grasp, desperately trying to get away. But it was all futile. There was a slick, popping sound, the heavy _clunking_ of metal crashing into wood; the lady watching as the soldier’s sword went through her husband’s back. Her baby cried in the arms of a madman as her husband bled to death on his henchman’s blade.

             As the soldier let her go, she ripped herself away from him as the soldier simultaneously ripped his sword from her husband’s abdomen. There was blood everywhere, it went on the floor, his shirt, his pants, the table, all over her dress as it gushed outward, dark red, almost black all over the carpet. She pushed her hands to the wound, tears streaking her face, she frantically tried to stem the flow of blood. Her husband was pale, his eyes closing, he was dropping to his knees.

            “Please, _no, no, no_ ,” she begged him quietly in his ear, he breathed out, his breath now a soft huff of air, shallow.

            “Don’t be sad,” he whispered, raising his hand to her cheek. She could feel something wet and warm on her skin now, she knew it was his own blood. Her vision fell to her hands for the briefest of seconds; they were covered in blood, her dress was now red where it was once a vibrant yellow. His breathing was becoming more and more shallow, she kept pushing her face to his hand, begging him with whimpering words, leaning against him. His weight was on his knees and they were giving out, he was swaying forward into her arms, “…we’ll meet again someday.” His voice was shaky; his breath was coming out in forced puffs.

            “No, no, _please_!” Her voice was high pitched. Her fingers were digging into his clothes and she was suddenly aware of the heaviness of his form against hers. His breathing had stopped, his chest was silent, his eyes were unblinking, his limbs were still and hung limply. A long drawn out wail escaped her throat, mixing with the cries of her own child which were now dominating the room.

            “We could have done this the easy way, but you all _insisted_ on doing this the hard way.” Volgin’s voice sounded harsh and heavy, cutting through her crying and wailing. He was bouncing the baby once more in a mock attempt at silencing him. He gestured to his soldiers to get her up, two of them grabbed her by her arms, she spun her head to the one on the left and spit in his eye, struggling away from them as best she could, kicking and biting. But it was no use, they were in heavy plate mail armor, there was nothing she could do. As they pulled her to her feet, her husband’s body fell forward, sliding to the floor, face down with a _thud_.

             She squeezed her eyes shut, her face pulling into a grimace, her hands clasping into fists. The soldiers dragged her to Volgin. He was holding her son, whose blue eyes peered up from his white linen blankets, little hands grasping at the air; he was oblivious to what had happened. She couldn’t smile, she could only stare and shake as the soldiers continued to hold her up, dangling her in front of Volgin like a prize. Distantly she registered that her dress felt crusty against her skin from the blood drying on it. Volgin leaned towards her, continuing to bounce the baby in the crook of his arm. His voice was lowered, almost to a whisper, he was watching her with large, unblinking eyes.

            “Unfortunately, my lady, after the way you kept this from me,” he gestured to the gurgling baby in his arms, “and after your husband's most calamitous stunt, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to end your reign.” She swallowed, her gulp audible. Her hands were tightly wound together in her lap, her arms shaking with muscle tremors. He continued to lean forward, his nose almost touching hers, his smile didn't fade, his teeth just barely visible beyond his lips.

            “It’s a shame, really. Such a pretty thing, going to waste.” He chuckled low in his throat, a deep vibration emerging from his chest as he gestured to his soldiers, “Take her away, cut her throat, drown her, I don’t really care. Just see that it’s done.” Quick as a snake, she drew back and spit a glob of snot in his face, trying to reach for her baby at the same time, kicking and writhing as the soldiers grabbed her again under her arms. His eyes closed on impact, his mouth pulled into a tight suffering smile as he wiped it off with the back of his hand.

            “Just couldn’t go quietly into the night, could you?” She shook in the arms of the soldiers, trembling with rage now.

            “I will never go quietly for a monster like you.” Her words were tight, her breath was uneven, and her arms hurt from being held up. He squinted at her, his face was a mask of stillness. He stared at her for a moment more, a slow smile spreading back across his features, “Yes, I knew you wouldn’t.” He reached out and took her chin in his free hand, angling her face upwards, she tried to pull away but it was fruitless, his grip was tight and she was held firmly in place by his soldiers.

            “Hopefully he’ll look like you when he’s older,” he turned her head to the left and then the right, examining her features. She was breathing hard through her nose now, rage boiling over. She closed her eyes tight. He chuckled once more, dropping his hand to his side then silently jerking his head towards the stairs. His soldiers lifted her up some before they marched off carrying the former ruler of the land like a vagrant. They carried her down the spiral stone steps, her feet dragging. They didn’t care if they broke her arm, they simply lugged her down the tight passageway, despite her cries that she could walk on her own. Tears kept streaming from her eyes as she desperately tried to wipe them away. One of the soldiers laughed as they reached the Great Hall once more. Her eyes opened wide at the sight, the smell was what hit her first. It was a sickening sweet, curdled smell, it was heavy and clung to everything. The stone floor was covered in blood, bodies piled against the wall, pieces of clothing here and there, shoes strewn about in what looked like a great struggle. Several other soldiers carelessly tossed a body onto another, making the pile one higher. All of them servants, children of the servants, or soldiers and guards: now reduced to nothing more than piles.

            “What a fucking mess,” one of the soldier carrying her said, the other grunted, nodding his agreement. She had gone limp again in their grasp, her feet dragging on the floor, shoes becoming bloody from the excess on the stone floor.

            “We’re gone have to clean this shit up when we get back,” the other soldier said, readjusting his grip on her arm, his metal gauntlet pinching her terribly. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the blood soaked floor, the eyes rolled back in lifeless heads, the hands which grasped at nothing.  It was everything she could do not to vomit at the smell. Her eyes squeezed shut and she prayed to whatever would listen that her son would not meet this fate. They carried her out into the open night air, the smell of death which had clung so viciously in the Great Hall was dissipated out here. She opened her eyes to see the peasants’ homes were left alone, none were on fire, or burnt or being torn down. There was no carnage out here. The soldiers carried her down the stone paved footpath and through the stone archway and under the portcullis.  

            The horses in the main stable were all left alone, they were all feeding normally and the lights in the stable hands home were out. She could see down below into the village, she could see how the thatched roofs of the village were all intact: there were no fires, no panic stricken sounds, no one dead or dying in the streets. The soldiers dragged her out of the courtyard and through the main gate, following the dirt path to the lake. Her shoes continued to drag on the ground, the sounds of the soldiers bustling in the castle were fading now. They were approaching a remote area; the trees lined the far shore of the lake, the village and the castle left behind by at least a several minute walk. The soldier dropped her simultaneously onto the ground, she landed on her knees, catching herself with her hands. Suddenly remembering how her husband had fallen against her earlier, her eyes filled with tears once more.

            “Well, I’m not interested in going back to clean up duty, let’s stretch this out some, what you say Braden?” The first soldier behind her said, his voice was horrible, grating, low born. She gritted her teeth. Her fingers gripping into the grass beneath her, digging in the Earth.

            “Aye, lets.” She could hear the sneer on his face as he laughed. Her ears picked up the sounds of metal clunking as they were removing their gloves, their helmets, and the sounds of shifting fabric echoing against the water of the still lake. She stared out across it. The woods were on the other side. The dark trees loomed ominously in the night, their branches reaching out over the dark, cold water. Their roots were cascading down the muddy embankment, dipping into the water for time out of mind. She released her grip on the ground, slipping her shoes off silently as the soldiers behind her struggled with their armor. They weren’t paying any attention to her now. Her shoes slipped off under her dress, they were small, cotton things, so they landed without a sound onto the cold grass.

            She drew in a sharp breath, listening for one last moment as the soldiers behind her laughed and chatted with each other as though rape and murder were as normal and casual as eating tartee[2].

            “I hate being out here at night, sard[3] knows what's in those woods.” He waved his hand in the direction of the shadowy, tangled trees, “Let’s have this royal wench and get back to work.” The first soldiers voice was directly behind her now. She was tense, her arms pressed forward, her legs propping her up under her dress, ready to bolt. The second soldier snorted his laughter, she could hear him walking closer, his still booted feet hitting the soggy grass and mud with a soft _pliff_ sound. She drew in another breath as the second man came up from behind her, she could feel his hands ghosting over the back of her dress, his fingers coasting down the buttons just so.

            She tensed up and pushed off the ground with the balls of her feet and dove face first into the lake, fighting every bit of water resistance. It was freezing cold and she could feel the water clinging to her dress, flowing in her hair, washing out her husband’s blood from the yellow fabric. She tried not to think, she just swam and swam and pushed onward as far as she could get from the men behind her. As she surfaced she heard them enter the water, heard them yell after her, cursing, but their splashing and yelling became more and more distant as she swam onwards. She drew in deep breath after breath, pushing one arm over the other through the water until she found herself scrambling up the muddy, tree root lined embankment. Using one tree root to pull herself up and another to stand on, one after the other, grab and pull, up the slippery slope. Barefooted, she disappeared into the darkened forest, the back of her yellow, wet, stained dress the last of her the soldiers saw. The silence she left in her wake was resounding.

            “Shite,” the first man said as he stood up to his ankles in the water. His companion standing on the grass, rubbing the back of his neck.

            “What do we do? Volgin’s gone kill us, she’s still alive.” His voice was tinged with fear, his breathing becoming more rapid.

            “Sard her, she ran off into the wood. She’ll be dead before sun up. Don’t nobody go in there and come out alive after nightfall. Something’ll get her.” He walked out of the lake, bending over to pick up the pieces of his discarded armor and put them back on before heading back to the castle.

            “What about her shoes?” Braden nodded to the two filthy sandals on the grass, walking over and picking them up, “Burn ‘em?” he asked. The other man nodded firmly. They dried off, put their armor back on, and donned their helmets. They walked back to the castle in silence. The ripples on the surface of the lake the only evidence that she had ever been there.

 

 

[1] Villein, or villain, was a term used in the feudal era to denote a peasant (tenant farmer) who was legally tied to a lord of the land.

[2] A pork and fruit pie, topped with whole chicken pieces, found in the cookbook: Forme of Cury. Which is an extensive collection of medieval English recipes of the 14th century, in the form of a scroll. Its authors are given as "the chief Master Cooks of King Richard II”. Authentic historical class.

[3] Medieval term for the word ‘fuck’, first seen in writing in a 10th century Old English translation of the Bible, Matthew 5:27, which states that one should not commit adultery, it is written as “Gehered ge fordon acueden is to ðæm aldum ne gesynnge ðu  vel ne serð ðu  oðres mones wif’, translated to modern English means, “You have heard that it was said to them of old, don’t sin, and don’t sard another man’s wife.”


	2. The Slash of a Pen is Worse than a Dash with a Lance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title is in reference to a 1529 writing by [Antonio de Guevara](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antonio_de_Guevara) , titled, 'Reloj de príncipes', wherein he compared a "pen to a lance, books to arms, and a life of studying to a life of war." In 1582 the idea resurfaces written down once more in text, appearing in [George Whetstone's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Whetstone), "An Heptameron of Civil Discourses: The dashe of a Pen, is more greeuous than the counterbuse of a Launce."
> 
> [Enjoy this music for Chapter Two,](https://open.spotify.com/user/astanaphon/playlist/44DgS6isWdLWCBwBFuzQ9T)

_The sun shone down brightly. A warm breeze blew, ruffling the leaves of the trees and the very tops of the grains growing in the fields. A handful of people were harvesting, working in the fields, bent over with threshers and hoes in their hands, gathering wheat and barley. The sounds of laughter and chatter resonated across the field. Workers were piling their yield into baskets that were dragged along behind them. Still others were lifting their harvest over their heads and placing it into the basket that they wore on their back. An older man was leaning on a rake, his chin against the wood as he took a moments’ rest from tilling the earth. He stood perfectly still, leaning heavily on his right leg as he gazed out over the field, the sun beginning to sink in the sky. The workers cast their own shadows onto the field as they continued their work._

_“Come on, boy!” A man’s voice called from down the dirt road. It was shaded compared to the fields which it wrapped around. The oak trees crowded around from all sides, keeping the sun’s heat to a minimum. The warm breeze was buffered by the massive trees and the stone wall, which wove between the field and the road. A boy walked along the rough packed dirt road, picking up speed from a walk to a run. His calfskin shoes scuffing on the dirt, creating a soft cloud of dust which drifted out behind him as he ran. His shadow was interrupted by the shade of the trees, the sun’s heat only touching his skin for a moment as it peaked between the leaves which hung overhead._

_“Coming, Da!” He yelled. The sun, still shining through the leaves, created sunspots on the ground. His father was up ahead, waving to him, urging him onward. He shifted, readjusting the basket on his back. The boy ran faster. His feet touched down on the dirt over and over again, but still, his father was too far up ahead. He was waving again, lifting his arm up, calling to the boy. The shade of the trees wasn’t fading, despite how fast he ran. His father wasn’t getting any closer. The boy ran faster, picking up his pace once more, “Da! Wait!” He yelled in his panic, trying to run faster, but the shrouded path was not coming to an end. He knew he should have reached the bright sunlight by now, where the trees stopped and the open air began; where his father was waiting patiently for him._

_“Da! Da!” He called again, but his father was turning away. Straightening the basket on his back as he turned to continue down the road. The boy kept running, faster and faster still, his hands outstretched in front of him. His vision was wavering, his eyes filling with tears as he tried to catch up. He kept running. His father disappeared over the next dip in the road, his basket on his back swaying as he walked. The boy was exhausted and he came to a stuttering halt, crying out as he fell to his knees, “Da! Daaaa! Come back!” He yelled over and over but it was no use. His father’s hat finally slowly vanished over the horizon. The boy screamed till his face was red and streaked with tears, his throat sore. No one took any heed. The people in the field continued to work. The trees continued to give shade. The sun continued to shine. The boy fell forward, his forehead pressed to the dirt of the road. His tears stained the ground, turning the soil dark brown._

               His eyes shot open and he woke with a start. He fumbled in his bed, sitting upright quickly. The blankets were sweaty and warm from his fever dream. He took a few steadying breaths, his hand clasped to his little chest, gradually his hand moved up to his throat, gripping the column of his neck. He was sweating everywhere, from every pore. He was in his room, it was pitch dark, save for the moon shining in through the only window. One of the kennel dogs was laying on the floor, slumbering peacefully. The boy was shaking, trying to gather himself, reassure himself that it was just a dream. _Just a terrible dream_. But he couldn’t. He sat in his bed with his knees pulled up to his chest, his hands grasping at the blankets, gathering them around his small frame, his face pressed into them, tears running freely. He couldn’t help the whine that escaped his throat, the way his face felt hot and his breathing constricted, his nose stuffing up. He rolled over onto his side, keeping his knees pressed to his chest, his face now buried in his pillow. He let his tears soak the cotton casing.

                He didn’t know when he’d fallen back to sleep, but he knew he’d cried himself there. Awakening once more, just as the sun rose, he pulled his blankets off, and swung his feet over the edge of the wooden framed bed. The ropes holding the hay and barley mattress up off the floor strained and gave as he moved. He winced as he realized they’d need to be tightened again and that it would be on him to do it.[1] His feet touched the cold stone floor and his toes curled on instinct. He looked over to the table beside his bed. There was a bowl of idle water, a rag neatly folded, and a single wooden stool sitting by his bed side. He scrunched up his face in thought, unsure of where those had come from. He shook his head listening to the sounds of chatter outside the window, down in the courtyard, where the ringing sounds of swords hitting the pell[2] could be heard, and the boisterous yelling of the Master-of-Arms as his voice boomed at the squires on the field. The boy went to his wash basin and rubbed his face with water, drying it off with the old piece of cloth rag that hung idle by the bowl. He pulled his clean day tunic on over his head, made sure his drawstrings on his pants were done up right, slipped his calf skin shoes on, and was out the door.

                He went running past the closed wooden doors of the hall, his footsteps echoing across the stone. He ran to the spiral stone steps at the end and dashed down them two at a time, trying to make up for sleeping in. The sun was high in the clear blue sky and he should have been down in the courtyard hours ago. He hoped that Lord Daw[3] didn’t reprimand him for this. The leather of his shoes slapped the stone floor as he dashed down the stairs and across the open hall towards the courtyard. He was panting as he sprinted, his face turning red from exertion and the worry of being late. He pushed his brown hair out of his eyes, sweat sticking to his brow as he finally came to a halt in front of several squires as they practiced their techniques on the pell. Some of them were practicing against one another with rebated[4] swords, blank training shields, and utilizing their newly learned footwork. Slowing down upon entering the courtyard he tucked his hands behind his back and headed to the large ornately carved, wooden table where Lord Daw was seated, scribbling away on some parchment. The old man’s head was bent far over his work: his right hand moving quickly over the paper, his left holding onto the top of the parchment to keep it from rolling down onto his writing, most likely the ink not yet dried. His knee jiggled under the table, causing the wax brazier on top to move ever so slightly.

               “I see you decided to join us today, John.” Daw didn’t look up as he spoke, simply continued to write with his quill, it scratched on the paper. John looked down at his feet, his cheeks now bright pink.

               “Sorry m’Lord.” He didn’t offer any explanation; he knew none would help him now. Daw looked up at him from under his eyebrows. He sighed, putting his quill down, and beckoned John to come closer. The boy did so, taking several steps forward until he was standing right beside the man’s chair, basked in the shade of the canopy.

               “Someone heard you last night, thrashing in your sleep, trying to talk, making an awful racket. Have one of those dreams again?” The older man’s face was kind, despite the scar over his left eye. His silver hair hung about his ears, the wind blowing it slightly. The man’s mouth turned upwards in a soft smile. John looked around, not wanting any of the squires or pages to hear. He bit his bottom lip, twiddling his fingers together behind his back, nodding his head solemnly.

                 “As I thought,” Daw nodded his head as he spoke, “I’m not coming down on you harshly child. You understand, I’m sure.” John continued to look down at his feet. Daw’s voice was low, “However, you will have to clean some swords today. Have to keep up appearances, as you well know, can’t seem to have any one favorite.” John stopped biting his lip, his face breaking in a smile. He nodded his head quickly, his shoulder length brown hair moving with his head. Daw turned to him and ruffled his unkempt hair before turning back to his work, “Go fetch some oil and you can start cleaning these swords here.” He gestured to the rack where several were hanging. John nodded silently, turning on his heel swiftly, he ran off to find some oil and rags.

                 “Sir, perhaps you should not show such favoritism so _openly_.” The steward said as he returned with more parchments and scrolls. Daw laughed, pouring wax onto his letter and sealing it shut with his emblem.

                “No one is watching, nor listening, no one but you, anyway.” Daw said, his eyes betrayed him as he spoke, giving away his enjoyment. Lawrence sighed, rolling his eyes noticeably. He tucked an errant strand of dark brown hair behind his ear with long, slender fingers. He was greying on his temples, but the rest of him still looked every bit the seventeen-year-old kitchen scullion that Daw had met years ago. He pursed his lips as he thought, his eyes squinting, becoming slits.

                “I know what happened to him was horrible, Sir, but I’m _simply_ saying that _perhaps_ ,” he paused, raising his eyebrows to emphasis his point, “you should come down a bit harder on him _occasionally_.” He pointed to Daw, as though he was holding him entirely accountable for the whole affair. He began to sift through the letters and parchments, placing them in their respective piles. As Lawrence now obviously deemed the conversation over, he made a _tsking_ sound as he rifled through the paperwork and saw how many there were to be done; he sighed at the mess on the table. Daw laughed, leaning back in his chair, the wood creaking as he moved. Lawrence glanced at him disapprovingly, his willowy hands stilled as he grasped scrolls and letters, waiting for Daw stop laughing. Finally, Daw stilled, his laughter fading quietly.

                “I take in all these royals and nobles sons, train them up, to be these chivalrous knights!” He gestured at the courtyard, his hand flopped down into his lap, “But, I take in one stray, just _one_ , Lawrence! And you give me hell fire for it every day.” He smirked at the other man, but his tone brokered no argument. Lawrence sighed audibly as he gathered up scrolls which had already been signed, shuffling the ones that needed to be signed into another pile, gently pushing them along the table towards Daw.

                “I do not give you hell fire for it, you Sir, are _exaggerating_. But! Do as you will, _my Lord_.” He said airily, waving his hand dismissively, “I will give these to the courier now.” He turned to walk away, scrolls in hand, but stopped just a few feet from the table as though he’d forgotten something. He turned back slightly to speak over his shoulder, “Sir, you’ve always asked that I am as honest with you as possible.” Daw nodded in agreement, knowing full well that this was the truth.

                “Aye, I do.” Daw replied gently. The wind pushed at Lawrence’s over coat, the black fabric ruffling in the breeze. He was taking his time, choosing his words carefully. He tapped his index finger once, twice, thrice, on the table before he spoke, his mouth a straight line, “You are treating that boy like he’s your son.” Daw bit the inside of his mouth at those words, he wrapped his knuckles on the arm of his wooden chair. The wind briskly blowing the canopy that he was seated under. The sounds of the squires training, the Master-of-Arms barking orders, reminding them about footing: it was all drowned out by Lawrence’s matter-of-fact statement. Daw sighed, a tired expression spread across his face.

                “I know, Lawrence, and as always, you are right.” He pointed to the other man, who bowed his head slightly, accepting the compliment with grace, “I don’t have any sons of my own and I certainly don’t get to keep any of the ones out in the courtyard.” He gestured to the squires, all sons of nobles and vassals[5] who would one day return to their homes and protect their father's lands with their lives. He sighed, frowning.

                 “I understand Sir, this one will just have to do, I suppose.” Lawrence allowed a soft expression to cross his features.

                 “Aye, that it will. I didn’t think you’d mind, really.” Daw returned the smile, it was genuine. He watched as Lawrence gracefully dragged his fingers down the length of the table before turning away, walking across the courtyard, back to the main hall. Daw listened to the other man yelling at servants, instructing them to return to their work. He smiled, watching Lawrence yell and give directions to errant kitchen scullions and chamber maids in the field. He laughed to himself, listening to the difficulties his Steward was having with easily excitable youths. Daw remained in his chair, now surveying the squires properly as they practiced, watching them with a disinterested view. Every day it was the same and everyday he thanked whatever would listen that he had a Master-of-Arms to manage all of those young men. The clouds were roiling above, the soft white being replaced with something a bit darker, more grey. He squinted at the sky, debating whether to head inside and continue his work there.  He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, thinking for a moment, before he was interrupted. Soft running footsteps were approaching from his right.  

                 “I got the oil m’Lord.” John was at his side again, holding out the oil and some rags, his bright blue eyes looking up at him. In that moment Daw realized that what Lawrence had said was absolutely true. He was treating this little orphan like his son. He and Lawrence had spoken on it many times. After Daw found the boy in that desolate village, the way he’d escaped the carnage, how malnourished he’d been, how dirty and feeble. The boy had almost been dead when he’d found him; running around in dirty rags, skittish, terrified, hair a rat’s nest mess, and starved. His little ribs showing through his delicate skin. No one knew how long the boy had been alone, left to his own devices after the carnage. Daw shook his head, pulling himself out of his thoughts, after all, in front of him was a well fed, healthy, safe, little boy.

                 “Well done. Now, set to task on those swords,” he gestured to the rack, “make sure they’re all cleaned first, then oiled.” He sighed, “What am I saying, you know what to do, don’t you, boy?” John nodded his understanding, his blue eyes wide and his brown hair swaying with his head as he spoke, “I do, Sir!” He set about pulling them down, one by one, cleaning one, oiling it, and then placing it back, ever so carefully; he took such care in everything he did. Daw watched him from the corner of his eye as he continued to write his letters and seal them. Lawrence’s words ringing in his head. All surrounded by his own thoughts about how John had come to live under his roof, come to live in his home and have a room all to himself in the manor.

                 Daw’s quill stilled in his hand, the wind was blowing gently, the canopy which he sat under swayed with the breeze once more, the fabric making a familiar sound as it billowed. The clinking sounds from the yard were everywhere, but the sound of humming, the familiar tune coming from John as he worked overrode it all. Daw’s mind kept harping on what Lawrence had said, that John wasn’t his son. Intellectually, he knew this, but emotionally, perhaps not. His mouth formed into a straight line, his grip on his quill became tighter. He’d be damned if he wasn’t going to do what he thought was right though.

                “Come here, John.” His voice was tight, unwavering. This was something he knew he had to do. He didn’t have a son, but, perhaps, he could do the right thing for this one. John hung up the sword he’d been working on, wiping his hands on his tunic. He turned to walk towards Daw, his face covered in oil smudges, his dirty little hands hung at his sides. He knew he was filthy but he smiled nonetheless.

                “Did anyone ever teach you your letters, John?” Daw asked.

                “No, Sir. Da couldn’t read or write.” John’s voice was small, sounding almost as if he was ashamed, his eyes downcast to the ground. Daw nodded his head, he’d known what the answer would be, but he also knew the importance in asking.

                “I want you to meet me in my chambers tonight, after evening meal time.” Lord Daw pointed to John, his eyebrows rose as he spoke, “Do not be late.” John nodded hurriedly, a smile plastered on his face.

                “To learn letters!?” John asked, his eyes lit up.

                “Aye, to learn letters,” Daw nodded his agreement to the plan, pleased with how excited John looked in that moment, “Now, back to work with you.” He pointed back to the swords, behind John. Daw watched as John turned and dashed away excitedly, where he renewed his work with vigor. The older man turned back his papers, the wind continued to blow the canopy which he sat under, and his hand continued to scribble his signature on every page. His own work went by slowly but John’s work seemed to be quicker. The boy finished the swords, hung them all up properly, and then went off to muck stalls with the pages. John, who wasn’t even technically a page, was the smallest out of them all. Daw watched him from across the courtyard, the way he struggled with the hay, trying to carry as much as he could. He was trying to do what the pages were doing, trying to lift as much as they could lift. He wasn’t yet tall enough to use the four pronged fork to muck and move hay properly, so he was regulated to carrying large quantities of the grass in his arms. Daw chuckled to himself, watching the comical scene in front of him: a small boy, trying to carry hay, his face a mask of determination, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he worked. Daw always gave it to him: John had gumption.

                “Having a blissful pang of parenting, Sir?” Lawrence’s drawing voice brought him out of his reverie. The Steward was gathering more scrolls and papers, inspecting them for their seals and signatures. His face was a mask of amusement as his gaze stayed on the papers in front of him and he relished how right he had been.

                “Wipe that smug grin off your face, Lawrence, it’s unbecoming on you.” Daw put down his quill, leaning back into his chair, waiting for the next quip.

                “Oh but Sir, that’s my _best_ face.” Lawrence smiled broadly, gathering up more scrolls, as he blew out the candle under the small metal brazier for the wax. The wind was dying down now, the canopy above them swayed less; the sun was returning to the sky. Daw chuckled, watching as Lawrence spoke to himself under his breath as he worked. His deft fingers flying through the letters and scrolls, deciding which ones needed to be taken care of immediately and which ones, realistically, could wait. He watched intently as Lawrence puttered away, carrying more scrolls and letters in his hands to be taken to another waiting courier. Daw drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, the sound of his fingertips against the wood, making a deep thrumming noise.

                The yard was quieting down. The squires were done with their sword and pell training for the day. Most of them were in the stables or the armory, working on horse tack or armor fittings. The squires were older than the pages, most of them anywhere between twelve and fifteen, preparing to go out into the world as knights at the age of sixteen. Daw sighed to himself, watching as the young pages in the courtyard cleaned up after the squires. That was just the way of it though; he remembered his own time as a page vividly, what with cleaning up after the squires and the older knights. It was degrading and back breaking work, it felt like it would never end; thankless work, indeed. He got up from his chair for the first time in hours, stretching as he did so, his back hurt. He was unaccustomed to sitting for that long, as he stood up, he could hear his back cracking. He slowly made his way back to the manor, the sun was high in the sky and the wind was picking up again, the trees on the other side of the courtyard swayed noiselessly. Night would be coming on in a few hours. Everyone was quieter now. The busy sounds of the courtyard were dying down, serfs were heading home, the manors servants were scurrying inside with the advance of darkness.

               The cooks and kitchen scullions were running in and out of the side door; some carried butchered geese, vegetables, fruits, two were rolling a wine cask, and some were busily running with wood to stoke the fires. Daw knew feeding the squires and pages was a tremendous amount of work and demanded a great amount of coin. Though, he left the actual numbers to Lawrence. Most of the squires and pages room and board were being paid for by their parents, Lords and Ladies of far and near places. Everything was paid up front, paid from hefty chests filled with gold: signed, sealed, and delivered with the boy when he arrived. The kitchen workers were not expecting Lord Daw to stroll into the kitchen, but he went in the side door, along with the scullions who were carrying baskets of vegetables and fruits. They both bowed deeply, one of them knocking his basket from his own hands. Daw stopped to help him to pick it up. The boy stuttered his thanks, Daw simply clapped him on the shoulder, strolling away.

                He exited the kitchens, walking away from the open floor fire pits. They created such a heated roar in the kitchens large stone confined walls that the cool air from the rest of the manor hit him directly in the face, it felt wonderful. He found Lawrence quickly in the hustling and bustling of the pre-meal rush. He instructed the other man that a servant was to bring two plates of food to his quarters. To his surprise Lawrence said nothing more than to raise an eyebrow and sigh, promising that two plates would be produced straightaway.

                “I was expecting a witty retort, Lawrence.” Daw said, standing aside for a handmaiden to run by with sheets bundled in her arms. She hurriedly excused herself and ran on. Lawrence said nothing, simply bowing his head and folding his hands together. Daw squinted at the other man, taking a step closer, “You really don’t approve do you?” His tone was simple, to the point; his voice almost a whisper. His eyes searched the other man’s face diligently, looking for some sign that this was a rouse, a joke, anything other than seriousness. Lawrence’s eyes skittered from the man in front of him to the passing servant who went running by as quickly as his feet could carry him.

                “Sir, I,” he paused, his mouth working around words he hesitated to say, “I do not approve but,” Daw’s face softened, his eyes falling to the floor as Lawrence continued, “but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.” He whispered harshly, his teeth clinking together. He reached out, his hand clasping onto his Lord’s forearm. Neither of them pulled away, they had done this before, this was normal, comfortable, real. Lawrence had always been free to say what he thought and Daw was always willing to listen. That was the arrangement.

                “I know what happened to the boy was… _horrendous_. But perhaps it’s best if he stays in his place? What would being a knight do for him, really?” Lawrence’s face was pleading. He’d obviously given this a lot of thought.

                “He’s a good boy, Lawrence. He’s very smart and he’s capable. More so than a lot of these louts roaming around.” Daw scoffed. The light from the last rays of sun shining in through the open windows at the end of the hall created a warm glow on the stone floor. Lawrence released his grip on the other man’s arm, retracting his hand quickly, he sighed his defeat, nodding.

                 “I’ll see to it that two plates are brought to your quarters when they’re ready, Sir.” His voice was small and tight but resolved. He bowed his head once more, chin to chest.

                 “Lawrence,” Daw paused when the other man looked straight up into his face, their eyes locked, “you’ve been caring for this boy just as much as I have. You were the one who took him from my arms when we arrived here. You were the one who nursed him back to health. You’re the one who goes to him in the night when he has those dreams.” Daw smiled but Lawrence turned bright red, his eyes cast to the floor. Though he couldn’t hide the loving grin that spread across his features as Daw continued, “You have just as much of an investment in his life as I do. Why don’t you want him to have a better life than being some peasant?” They were almost nose to nose. The sounds of footsteps were distant; they were in their own world.

                  “It’s not that, Sir, it’s-” Daw cut the other man off with a wave of his hand, slicing through the air.

                  “Don’t ‘ _Sir’_ me, Lawrence.” His voice was heated.  Lawrence nodded.

                  “Daw,” he sighed through his nose, “it’s not that. I would greatly love for him to have a wonderful life as a knight in a court, I would. But…” Daw took a quick step backwards as the same handmaiden from earlier came rushing down the hall, she bowed and excused herself. The breeze from her running past them lingered between the stone walls for a moment. Lawrence wrung his hands together.

                  “Come, we cannot speak of this here.” Daw gestured for the other man to follow him. He led the way down the rest of the hall and to the large wooden door at the end. Pushing the heavy door open with the palm of his hand. Though, he certainly didn’t make it look heavy as he moved it aside and held it for Lawrence. The door shut with a resounding _thud_ , the metal of the door handles clanging against the wood as it closed, and Daw turned to face the other man standing in his quarters. It was silent here. There were no feet scurrying. No sounds of pots and pans. No yelling, and certainly no one passing between them, Lawrence drew in a breath.

                “I would love for John to have a wonderful life.” Lawrence’s eyes closed for a few seconds as he bit his bottom lip. When he opened them again he shook his head, thinking, his hands wringing together, “It’s just that, I suppose I think of myself and I remember how when I came here I couldn’t read either. Until you taught me.” A slow secretive smile spread across his face. As though that was a wonderful, albeit, distant memory.

                “I remember how I lived in blissful ignorance as a kitchen scullion for two years.” He shook his head huffing out a laugh. “I remember what the world used to look like and then after,” he sighed, seeming to lose himself in his memories. The room went silent for a moment. Daw folded his arms across his chest. Waiting.

                “After I learned how to read, I realized how different the world was. I saw so many things, secrets being traded, lives being swapped, the world being dictated right out on paper, right in front of my eyes. That sounds so silly but, perhaps,” he paused, his left hand rising to rub the back of his neck, he let out an irritated sigh, “I just don’t want him to...” His words trailed away, his gaze fell to the window, it overlooked the courtyard where two young pages were playing with wooden tourney swords. They were giggling and laughing only to run off into the stables.

               “Lawrence,” the other man spoke, his voice was soft, comforting, warm, “your argument has nothing to do with being a serf. You just don’t want him to grow up.” Daw’s voice became sharp, his eyebrows rose up as he spoke, “If he learns to read and becomes a knight, he’ll be a man. You want him to stay an innocent child, doesn’t work like that, sadly.” Daw smiled and Lawrence laughed, his gaze falling on the other man, both their faces breaking into reassuring smiles for the other. Lawrence rubbed his face with both hands, letting out a held breath as he did so.  

               “Yes, you’ve put that feeling to much more eloquent words than I ever could have. I suppose,” he laughed again, a short mirthful sound, “I’ll miss him once he’s a squire with duties and a damned horse.” They laughed together. Daw took several steps towards the other man, his laughter coming to a slow, low rumble. He inclined his head, looking down at Lawrence for a moment. The other man looked up at him, brown hair slipping from behind his ears. They said nothing; the silence that passed between them was easy.

               “He doesn’t know it’s you caring for him at night, when he has those terrible dreams.” Daw drew in a deep breath, his teeth clicking together as he thought, “I’d like to tell him.” He said quietly. There was another drawn out silence, still comfortable, but it laid on them both. Lawrence smiled.

               “Your voice wavered as you spoke.” Lawrence said quickly, his words were hushed.

               “I’m unsure.” Daw said, Lawrence nodded, his hands now tightly gripping one another.

               “Tell him. I just…I don’t want anything to change.” The room was silent once more. The only sound was their mutual breathing. Lawrence finally looked up at the man in front of him and cleared his throat decisively, “I will see to those two plates now.” He gave a short, brisk nod before turning to leave. Daw reached out quickly and grabbed him by the arm. Lawrence turned to look at him, his hand lingering on his forearm.

               “Don’t worry, really.” He released the other man’s arm, watching as Lawrence smiled broadly at him before turning to leave. The heavy door creaked open as he pulled on the metal handle, the bottom of the door scrapping the stone floor, “Would you like me to leave the door ajar, Sir?” Lawrence’s voice was tight again, serious, his demonstrative tone now gone. He retracted his grip on the door handle, his hands were folded neatly in front of him. The perfect picture of a useful and ever dutiful Steward once again. Daw smiled at him, remembering a different Lawrence for a flash of a moment. He sighed, folding his arms across his chest again.

               “Yes, that’ll do, Lawrence. Thank you.” Lawrence bowed as he exited the room, the door standing open by a fraction of an inch. The sounds of his disappearing footsteps reverberated down the stone corridor. Daw leaned against his desk, his gaze falling once more out the window. The courtyard was now empty. Everyone getting ready for the evening meal in the main hall. Daw stood and stared out the window for a while, simply watching the stragglers from the barn and the smithy filing into the main hall. The evening meal bell rang low and loud in the distance. The sun was setting, the hues of orange and yellow and purple were beginning to touch the sky in the distance, just above the tree line. The rain that he thought would come pouring down earlier, never came down at all.

 

[1] Mattresses were stuffed with whatever material was available: feathers, wool, down, moss, rags, grass, or hay. These were laid across a netting of tightly knotted ropes, which needed to be retied regularly or they would sag in the middle, creating a dip in the center of the bed. Hence the expression “sleep tight.” 

[2] Knights and Men-at-arms would utilize the pell, a hacking post, to build up necessary muscle for delivering a killing blow, learning to recover the sword after deflecting on armor or a shield, and learning to make cuts and absorb impact.

[3] Medieval diminutive of the modern name, ‘David.’

[4] Sword that has had its point and edge blunted for training or tournament

[5] a holder of land by feudal tenure on conditions of homage and allegiance.

 


	3. Par Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title means "by strength". Hunting par force was a form of hunting where the game was run down and exhausted by the hunters dogs before the kill was made. Par force hunting consisted of eight parts: the quest, the assembly, the relays, the moving or un-harboring, the chase, the baying, the unmaking and the curée.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated this in a while, for this I apologize. I haven't been medically in a good place to do any writing and i was stricken with some serious writers block about this story. But all seems to be getting better and the medical situation is smoothing out as well. That said, I apologize for this taking so long. I also apologize because the person who edits this is not available to edit right now, so if there are any errors, let me know and I'll fix them. I mention some recipes and food in this, if you want feel free to contact me @itsastanaphon on Twitter and i can see about getting you some of these historically accurate recipes. That all said and done with, thanks for waiting and reading.

           Many white tents dotted the landscape. Erected overnight in a field not far outside of the castle walls. There was a sea of them laying on the land. The white contrasting with the green of the grass was sharp to the eye. A constant murmur of chattering and yelling could be heard, a faint far off sound of music playing jostled the crowd along. People milled everywhere, walking this way and that. Most of the people were peasants, enjoying the week of Tournament. The sounds of children laughing and yelling, their shoes slapping the dirt of the packed tourney roads. They were trying to get as close as they could to the Knights on the Tourney field without getting into trouble for not having paid.  

            The sun was somewhat obscured, the wind was low, but luckily it hadn’t rained. Rain was something that no one wanted to be out in.  The rain simply turned the field into a sea of mud and then when you fell, which you inevitably would, it was all the messier. Mud got everywhere, inside the armor, inside the boots, on your face, in ears, up noses, and in mouths. It was terrible, messy, hard to clean, and difficult to get out of, it clung to everything it touched and yet it was exhilarating. If you fell, the knowledge that you’d eat dirt in front of the whole tourney stadium was a pressure to perform perfectly.[1] The young man sitting on a stool outside of one of the larger white tents knew all about the importance of staying astride ones horse. He had been training for this for years and many, many times he’d hit the ground. As he sat and watched older Knights go by on their horses, their pages and squires running behind them, he quietly and dutifully cleaned his sword. Even though the sun was not shining brightly, his sword surely would.

            In the distance, trumpets blared, signaling the arrival of royalty. The sound of many people standing, cheers, and clapping could be heard as the trumpets died down. The young man looked up, in the direction of the sound, but couldn’t see anything aside from the tourney stands and the many people flocked around the entrance. He went back to his sword. His hand gliding down the blade evenly, slowly, methodically. The wind picked up for a moment, whipping his brown hair about his face, ruffling at his white tunic. The sides of the tent caught the gust and billowed the fabric slightly. He squinted his eyes as he worked, the wind whipping at his face now.

            “Are you _still_ cleaning that sword?” Lawrence bustled by, his hands folded neatly behind his back. His coat being whipped by the wind slightly, he walked briskly. Lawrence’s long brown hair, once so sleek looking, was now greying at the temples. The corners of his eyes wrinkled when he smiled.

            “You don’t have all day, John. You should get ready.” Lawrence walked to the back of the tent, pushing one of the flaps out of the way. He called for the squires to assist, his voice was soft but it carried well. The boys came running quickly enough. The two young men came running into the tent and began organizing the armor in the order that it would be applied. The sounds of metal clinking against metal and the soft whispering of the squires as they bickered amongst themselves was flooding the tent. John sighed.

            “I know,” He drew in a deep breath, “I’m just worried, is all.” Lawrence knitted his eyebrows together and gave John a knowing smile.  

            “I figured as much,” Lawrence’s eyes were gentle as they landed on John’s seated form, his voice was soft, almost wistful sounding, “and you have every right to be!” He turned and gestured towards the tourney grounds, the trumpets sounding once more, the usual sounds of a crowd could be heard, “But don’t worry, really John, you’ll do marvelously. I know you will.” Lawrence knitted his fingers together in front of himself, watching John expectantly. John nodded absently, his gaze downcast.

            “I guess I should get my armor on.” He said as he stood, Lawrence bowed quickly, dragging one foot backwards as he did so.

            “Very good, sir.” He said as he stood, clapping his hands, summoning the squires. It didn’t take very long for John to be suited into armor as the squires were quick about their business. John simply stood quietly and waited patiently, arms outstretched and feet planted at his shoulders width. Lawrence was quietly discussing the other knights who had already gone before him: who had won, who had lost, who had fallen from his horse and then landed in manure. John laughed at this commentary and it calmed his nerves some, though, only for a time. Once the armor was applied and tied on properly, he was ready. He tested the joints by bending his elbows and knees, the youngest squire followed him out of the tent, still clutching the helmet. The older one walking along behind. The grass softly crunched under the squires feet as they followed John and Lawrence out into the sun light.

            “Who is this tourney for, Lawrence?” John asked as he adjusted his left sabaton[2] by shaking his foot this way and that. The metal clanged lightly as it was met with an irritated sigh from Lawrence.

            “It is the coronation celebration of his Majesty, Lord Adamska, First of His Name, Ruler of Yarsk, Rassvet, and the Island Nation of Olin.” Lawrence said rapidly, as though he’d been prepared; he then turned sharply on his heel with an eyebrow raised, “I was under the impression that you already _knew_ all the rulers of the land _and_ their successors, John.” His voice was tight and his eyebrow was reaching upwards towards the sun. John immediately recognized the lack of _Sir_ in front of his name, knowing full well what this meant. He found himself simply opening and shutting his mouth once, twice, and then decided it best to simply not answer at all.

             Lawrence took a step towards John, the wind blowing his coat about between them. He leaned in closer so that the squires could not hear, “John, please, do not give me your best impression of a fish, hmm?” Very quickly John felt ten years old again, his cheeks flushing just like they once did when Lawrence reprimanded him for doing something senseless and inane.  Lawrence lowered his eyebrow as he pulled away, smiling, and slowly turning back around, walking with one foot in front of the other to the largest of the small cluster of tents. The wind was whipping up again, the sun was bright once more, and the trees that lined the dirt road to the tournament were swaying in the wind. Once more, distantly, John could hear cheering and trumpets blaring. The distinct sounds of metal and wood clashing and of horses neighing and whickering were filling his ears. His brow was starting to sweat, his hands felt hot in his plate gauntlets, he was nervous beyond measure.

             They approached the largest tent and Lawrence pushed the white fabric aside, holding it open as John ducked to enter. The two young squires stood outside and waited. Inside the tent there were rugs everywhere, pushing the grass down, and mimicking the inside of a home. There was a large wooden desk, a chair, and a cot with blankets piled up at the foot. Lord Daw sat in the wooden chair, his elbows leaning on the desk, his head hung over scrolls of paper. It was the same vision of him John had seen growing up. Always writing something, always busy, always with a quill in his hand and ink on the cuff of his sleeve. Lawrence cleared his throat. Daw looked up, his eyes became brighter, his face broke into a smile. His hair was no greyer than it was when John was young but the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth told a different story.

              “Well, I see plate mail suits you.” Daw said as he stood, one of the chair legs getting caught on the rug as he pushed it backwards. He leaned on the desk as he stood, he was older now and not as active as he had once been. Years ago, John could remember Daw was the one who trained him, personally. But after a certain time and a few injuries, that job was left to the Master-of-Arms. John never did get to beat Daw on the training field, he didn’t think he ever could, unless the old man became feeble. But then, surely, that wouldn’t be a fair fight.

              “Aye, it seems to. Now I just have to not fall off my horse.” John shrugged. Daw laughed, a grin spread across his face from ear-to-ear.

              “That is the plan, yes.” Daw said as he took a few more steps closer to John, “But, if it doesn’t go per plan, that’s all right too.” Lawrence, standing beside John, nodded fervently in agreement.

              “But you won’t fail, Sir. You’re _very_ _well_ trained.” Lawrence said quietly, leaning forward as he spoke. John gave a smile, though it felt forced.

              “I do hope that is a well-played, albeit, double handed compliment, Lawrence.” Daw said as he clasped his hands behind his back, balancing himself on the balls of his feet for a moment, his eyebrows raised. Lawrence smiled broadly.

              “Mayhap, Sire, mayhap.” Lawrence said swiftly and assuredly before gesturing to the exit for John. Indicating that it was indeed, time to go. They didn’t linger long with luck wishing and goodbyes, John knew he’d see Daw afterwards, whatever the outcome. Exiting the white tent, the squires waiting outside followed dutifully behind John and Lawrence. The grass under their feet slowly gave way to a gravel walkway leading to the tourney, which led past the tents, stalls, and merchants. The smells of food were becoming clearer, John could smell the delicious scents of meat pies, sausages, roast chickens, beef ribs, sheep’s feet, and everything else simply blending together.[3] He was suddenly very aware of how hungry he was but the sounds of shouting were more distinct and his worries were taking over again. The noise of chattering and babbling and shouting, the sights of people running this way and that trying to see the festivities, it was almost too much, for a moment he thought he’d retch. As they drew closer to the field, John could see a group of people waiting in line to pay, some paid more so that they could have better seats, most people simply sat down on the simple benches or the ground. But above the commoners’ seats was an elevated wooden platform where royalty sat. Their thrones were wood, adorned with ornate carvings; as usual, these seats were the only ones with arm rests and cushions. They were also sheltered from the elements, their seats being hedged in by thick, rich cloth covered in tassels. This way they were protected from the wind, rain, the snow, and even the sun, should it shine too brightly on them.

              Lawrence and the squires could only walk with John so far. The young squire dutifully handed John his helmet while the other came running up holding the reigns of a large chestnut colored destrier.[4] The animal was draped in colorful cloth; no designs were embroidered on it. The cloth was simply patches all meticulously sewn together, someone had obviously taken a great deal of time to construct such a beautiful thing. The saddle, which sat upon the cloth covering, was made of rawhide and leather; it was stiff at the best of times, but held John in place for the worst of times. The animals armor buckled around its form, holding the saddle in place and offering some protection from glancing blows or a stray lance. The horse was now impatiently stomping its hoof; the dirt of the ground rose upwards in a cloud, surrounding their feet for a moment, before the wind quickly gathered it away into the air. This horse was truly an impressive animal,

              “Good luck, Sir.” Lawrence said as the squires ran off back to the tent, to wait. John mounted his horse, adjusting his position on the saddle. He looked down at Lawrence, who stood by patiently waiting to see John off.

              “Gramercy[5], Lawrence.” His voice was low and his gaze was on the field in front of him. He slammed his helmet on his head, moving it from side to side, this way and that, trying to make it fit perfectly but also so that he could see properly. Lawrence retreated off the field, someone shouted indistinctly and a loud grinding sound could be heard; the gate was opening. John sighed, fidgeting in his seat, his horse cantering nervously, John patted him on the neck, whispering more to himself then to the animal, “Calm down.” With the gate now open, the crowd in full view, John clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, his horse walking forwards calmly now, the dust and dirt of the field disturbed by the horse’s hooves.

              He glanced around the field, with his limited sight, he could make out the closest members of the crowd, peasants and they were cheering and waving. Far off, seated higher than everyone else, was a group of people sheltered by the heavy cloth of royalty. The sun never touching their faces, only coming up to their knees. John was unable to see them too clearly, but one had to be his Lordship Adamska, as Lawrence had said earlier; servants and other royals surrounded him. John couldn’t see his face through the small eye slits of the helmet or the shade that the other man was seated in. He was rattled though, more than he had been earlier, this was an unnatural feeling. As the two squires came up to him carrying his lance he was in an uncomfortable stupor, the crowd fading away, the noise giving way to buzzing in his ears. But he couldn’t take his vision away from the dark shade where the royals were seated. It was like someone, or something, was studying him. He was frozen in his saddle, despite the sun shining down on him, he was breaking out in a cold sweat. The feeling of being watched was all encompassing and he suddenly realized that he could do nothing to stop it.

 

[1] Historically this is wrong. As written by Vita Edwardi Secundi in 1307, “It is a recognized rule in this game that he who loses most and is most frequently unhorsed, is judged the most valiant and the stronger.” (However, for the sake of storytelling we’ll be using the incorrect _A Knights Tale_ version of jousting and tourneys)

[2] A boot cover made of plate or mail

[3] I have actual recipes for these things. They are well documented as recipes for the Medieval era. If youd like the recipes to try at home, let me know. You can also check out this website: http://briwaf.blogspot.com/2014/01/old-stuff-street-food-in-medieval.html and do some googling to find others.

[4] The destrier is a war horse of the medieval period. It carried knights in battle, tournament, and jousts. The word destrier is derived from the Vulgar Latin dextarius, meaning "right-sided". This may refer to it being led by the squire at the knight's right side or led by the right hand or to the horse's gait, possibly leading with the right.

[5] gra·mer·cy (grə-mûr′sē, grăm′ər-) interj. Archaic Used to express surprise or gratitude. [Middle English gramerci, from Old French grand merci : grand, great; see grand + merci, thanks; see mercy.]


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